The hard days come like an ambush, don’t they? You wake up to find your body has been rewired in the night, old coding crawling back like ivy. You’re a stranger to yourself again—a tin soldier marching to someone else’s drum, someone else’s war. Your heart? Oh, it sits there like a stone in your chest, stubborn and silent. You can’t make it beat for you. It beats for the ghosts, for the past, for something that isn’t you anymore.
I know. I know how the air feels heavy as lead, how the mirror accuses you. It whispers, “This is who you are, who you’ll always be.” And you want to smash it, don’t you? Shatter the glass so it can’t keep reflecting this betrayal. But mirrors are patient things. They wait. They know you’ll come back.
So how do you survive? You breathe, first. Not for the romance of it, not because it will save you, but because it’s the only thing left. You inhale, you exhale, and you let the hours bleed themselves dry. You sit with the unbearable weight of it, the silence of your heart refusing to play along.
And then you get up. Slowly, awkwardly, like an animal that’s been wounded. You put your feet on the floor because it’s the only thing to do. You make tea, even if you can’t taste it. You touch the edge of the table, the rough grain of the wood, and remind yourself you’re here.
On these days, survival is not a victory march. It’s the quiet rebellion of existing, of saying, “Not yet.” You don’t owe the world your happiness, only your persistence.
Somewhere in the wreckage, there’s a small light. It’s not hope—not yet—but it’s something. Maybe it’s curiosity, or spite, or the smallest whisper of a voice saying, “Tomorrow might be different.” Hold on to that, even if it burns your fingers.
And if all else fails, write it down. Bleed it out onto the page, ink for blood, words for tears. Let the old coding crumble beneath the weight of your truth. Let it know it cannot win.
B🤍
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